Nightmares and Poetry
by Artemis Darkshadow
Summary: In which America has a nightmare and England comforts his little brother. (I suck at summaries, please give it a read.)


**Ok, so this is my first Hetalia fanfic. Please be gentle. I tried writing something fluffy...**

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England had never been a particularly good sleeper. A long history of war and religious turmoil had given him just cause for such, he thought. There was always something or someone to concern him- a rebellion or a usurper, a new medical practice the church disapproved of or something similar. To find him wandering the corridors of his home late at night, after all sensible people had gone to bed, was not an unusual thing. Some nights he would try to be productive- complete some paperwork or write a letter- others he would simply lay still, allowing his insomnia to wash over him, sleep taunting him until sheer exhaustion finally took hold.

When his little brother arrived, England discovered that having a small child in the house both helped and hindered this. America's seemingly endless energy and desire for his brother's company would leave England absolutely shattered at the end of most days, making it much easier for him to sleep.

The hindrance came afterward. America never seemed inclined to sleep for very long. And apparently, for lord only knows what reason, England was the only person on the entire _planet _who could get him to sleep.

Tonight, however, was different. Usually, if America was going to wake him up, it was loudly. Very loudly. Instead, England was woken by a quiet knocking on his door.

He rolled over, frowning at the door. "That's unusual." He thought to himself. No one but America would disturb him at this hour.

He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, letting out a deep breath. If the little boy was going to jump on him, he wanted to be prepared.

Three more knocks on the door, followed by a quiet voice calling "Arthur?"

England frowned once more. America hardly ever addressed him by that name, only when he was upset or scared. He stood and walked over to the door, pulling it open, to be met with a mop of messy dark-blonde hair and those big blue eyes peeking through.

"Alfred? Why on earth are you awake at this ungodly hour? You were put to bed hours ago." He ran a hand through his hair, watching the little boy fidget under his gaze, twisting his fingers about and bouncing on his heels. He said something almost inaudibly quietly.

England raised an eyebrow. "Pardon, Alfred? I have told you that mumbling is impolite. Please repeat."

America bounced up and down on his heels even more. "I…I had a…" He stuttered. "A nightmare and…and I wondered if you would…It was…I couldn't…"

He broke off, throwing his arms around England's waist, sobbing.

"Ssssssh, Alfred." He soothed, stroking the top of his head. "It's alright."

America gripped his legs tighter, causing England to almost have to take a step back. "Would…would it make you feel better if- Alfred."

The little country looked up at him, eyes watery. "Yes?"

"Would it be better if you slept in my room tonight?"

The little boy's eyes widened, smiling. "Really?"

"Really. Come on. You'll need to detach yourself from my legs first, of course. Do you think you can manage that?"

America nodded frantically, disentangling himself and grabbing his big brother's hand.

England paused. He liked this. Despite the late hour and the imposition, he'd forgotten how reassuring the little hand was clasping his own. He let go and watched the boy scramble under his covers, allowing himself a small smile, closing the door. He climbed in beside him, letting America snuggle into his chest, closing his arms around him. He was surprisingly warm, and somehow his presence nestled against his chest was very comforting, his erratic breathing slowing to a steady rhythm.

After a few minutes of silence, America whispered, "Arthur, are you still awake?"

"Of course I am, little one. What's the matter?"

America wriggled down a little bit, trying to get comfy. "Will you tell me some more of that… poetry?"

England laughed, raising an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't like it? You said Chaucer was boring." He remembered that particular lesson. The little boy had complained throughout the whole beginning, saying that heroes don't need to know poetry, that it was boring and he hated it. However, after several minutes, he had become quite taken with it. But, as little boys do, when he had finished, he had assumed the persona he had adopted at the beginning of the lesson. All in all it had been quite amusing.

"Well…it's…alright. I mean… I need to go to sleep so…please?"

"Very well:

Almighty and al merciable queene,  
To whom that al this world fleeth for socour,  
To have relees of sinne, of sorwe, and teene,  
Glorious virgine, of alle floures flour,  
To thee I flee, confounded in errour.  
Help and releeve, thou mighti debonayre,  
Have mercy on my perilous langour.  
Venquisshed me hath my cruel adversaire.

Bountee so fix hath in thin herte his tente  
That wel I wot thou wolt my socour-"

By the time he was less than half way through the second verse, the little country was fast asleep.

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**I hope you weren't put off by how my weird obsession with Chaucer came into it...**

**Please take a sec to review- feed the keyboard. :3**


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